


Wherever you're going, I'm going your way

by Illya_zero_chill_Kuryakin



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Dancing, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Napollya - Freeform, and you, why am I doing this to myself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 22:34:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4804679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illya_zero_chill_Kuryakin/pseuds/Illya_zero_chill_Kuryakin





	Wherever you're going, I'm going your way

~~_  
_~~

It had been two hours of stepped on toes, twisted arms and bumped-into furniture. It was hopeless. Gaby was doing well. Especially for someone who was tired of being stepped on, twisted around and bumped into. The giant Russian however ... not so good.

Solo had been patient. Very. Patient. He had shown them the steps again and again. Posture. Arms. Head. He even had resorted to clapping along to the music. It didn't help. The Russian was most definitely not a dancer.

'I need some air' Gaby finally said, walking to the door, without turning around. They both watched her go, leaving them in the middle of the makeshift dance floor.

Napoleon tucked on his waistcoat, sighing. 'Peril. I get it.' he said, looking at Illya. 'But if not for the art itself. At least for the case. For...' he sighed, 'for Gaby?' Just... feel the music.' - Solo began swaying on his feet again, repeating the steps he had shown to the tall man earlier. 'I know.' Illya raised his hand to stop Solo mid-motion. 'I know the steps. I see them. I know. Still...' the Russian sighed and let his broad shoulders slouch ever so slightly. 'No no no no. None of that. Square up, KGB.' Solo said, demandingly.

He walked around Illya, pulled his shoulders back, placing one hand between his shoulders. He then lifted the Russian's long arms into position. 'From the top.' Illya let his arms sink immediately once more: 'She won't be back for a while.' 'Not a problem' Napoleon replied without missing a beat. He walked back around the Russian and reached out his hand to Illya.

Silence.

Illya stood in the middle of the room. Frozen. The Russian looked at the hand. Then at Napoleon, who challengingly cocked an eyebrow and gave Illya a little nod.

More silence.

Illya's eyes kept on flicking from Solo's hand to his face.

'I ...' Illya started. 'Come on. Nobody is here. You said it yourself: Gaby won't be back for a while.' Illya continued to stare at Solo's extended hand. Stoic. He looked down to his feet. It had become so difficult to hide. He couldn't. He shouldn't. It would get in the way. Not good. Neither for the mission, nor Solo, nor … 'Illya.' Napoleon said, quietly, stepping closer. Illya had heard Solo saying his name during missions – rarely, but it happened. … But never like this. Soft. Supportive. Understanding. Pleading.

Illya blinked his eyes and shook his head, as if to shake off a spell. Again, he looked from the hand back to Solo's face. The sunlight, which came through the half closed curtains, danced on Napoleon's face and reflected in his eyes. Solo made a little 'come on' movement with his hand - and the Russian finally reached out his hand.

Stepping further into the light, now bathed in a beam of golden sunshine, both men, when their fingers touched, held their breath - both hoping the other wouldn't notice – both too focused on their own composure to notice the same reaction in the other man. Napoleon, gently, laid his hand in Illya's - who could barely feel the touch. It was all too much, yet not enough. His hand, gingerly, closed around Solo's – almost completely covering it. Napoleon stepped closer, lifting Illya's hand to his waist, placing it around his back, then resting his own hand on the Russian's shoulder, his fingers gently laying stretched out along his neck.

Their faces were mere inches from another. Napoleon looked up to Illya and, for the first time, the Russian noticed the fleck of amber amidst Solo's deep blue eyes. He usually was rather observant of details, but he found looking at Solo for too long rather … compromising.

He let Napoleon arrange and rearrange his position and posture, his fingers travelling along his arms, lifting, pushing, pulling ever so slightly, softly … until he seemed content. Napoleon looked up once more, gave a small nod 'Aaand...' was the last and only thing Illya heard before he felt a slight push of Napoleon's hand on his shoulder and a careful, but determined pull from Solo's hand, still resting in his. 'Right. Man forward.' Illya remembered. He made it past the first step - but no further.

He was too focused on how the American's back felt again his hand – how his hand felt around Napoleon's – how amazing this one short moment in synchronism felt. He missed his cue and instead of moving backward, moved forward once more, causing for Solo to dance right into him. 'The other backward.' Solo said, still half pressed against the Russian's chest. He was sure Napoleon could feel his heart racing.

Solo recovered quickly and got into position again, just to have Illya walk away from him.  
'Useless.' he said, and forcefully sat down in a chair. 'Don't be so hard on yourself, Peril. That one step,' he gestured to Illya's feet and the floor, '… was … quite good. Another 200 or so of those and you'll have made it through a song.'

The Russian scoffed.

'Seriously? You'll let 'The American' have that one? You won't even put up a fight? What would Semichastny say? Do you need a drink? Do you maybe need to take your hat of? - just to … loosen up a bit? ...... punch me?' Napoleon, obviously pleased with his comments, winked at Illya, almost involuntarily. Both pretended to not have noticed. Illya continued to sulk in his chair.

'Alright. Fine. Be it that way. Dance beats Russia. White flag. Done. We'll just … think of something else how we can get past sec...' Solo didn't get any further. Illya launched himself from his chair – it was always quite impressive when Kuryakin got up from a seated position, as one's head just seemingly never stopped tilting back more and more.

Napoleon had halted mid-sentence, as the Russian swiftly walked toward and then past him, taking off his hat, throwing it onto the sofa and then walking over to mini bar, finishing the last sip of Napoleon's Scotch. The American wanted to protest, but seeing a 6'5” Russian pull a face over a sip of alcohol is something to behold, and utterly disarming.

After a moment of staring into the empty glass with displeasure, Illya put it down and started walking back over to Solo, who was witnessing the entire curiosity from the middle of the room, arms folded in front of his chest. Kuryakin stopped in front of him - Napoleon having to lift his head up in order to look into his face. 'The punching thing was a joke ... I think,' Solo said, ready to duck.

Without a word, Illya took Solo's hand and placed it back on his shoulder, tracing his fingers with his own. He then raised Solo's other arm by running his hand from elbow to wrist, settling Napoleon's hand in his. The Russian stepped closer to slide his hand around his waist, resting it on Solo's back once again. The sheer concentration and determination on Illya's face made Napoleon smile – up to that moment he had, rather confusedly, observed the scene after the Russian had propelled himself out of his chair.

Now, all in position, he could already see the new found confidence fading. 'Step forward and then back – simple. Focus on me. Feel for my hands and follow my lead,' Napoleon said. Kuryakin was looking past his face, down onto their feet. Concentrating.

'Да!'

Breathe in … out ...

'Aaand...'

end part 1


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